


The Lovers

by angelview



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: #AFutureForBenSolo, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Professors, Angelview, Art, Art History, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, College Student Rey (Star Wars), Devoted Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Epilogue, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Mush, HEA, Identity Reveal, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Art, Kissing in the Rain, Lonely Ben Solo, Lonely Rey (Star Wars), Love at First Sight, Married Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Modern Era, Museums, Mutual Pining, New York City, One Shot, POV Alternating, POV Ben Solo, POV Rey (Star Wars), Professor Kylo Ren, Prompt Fic, Rey Kenobi, Rey Needs A Hug, Rey Solo, Reylo - Freeform, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Romanticism, Secret Crush, Short & Sweet, Soft Ben Solo, Taylor Swift helped me write this, Teacher-Student Relationship, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, ang3lview, i might include an epilogue, we’ll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:48:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24323038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelview/pseuds/angelview
Summary: “I like what you said. That the greatest love is sewn together, held by the intricacy of companionship.”“You took the vague comment I made and turned it poetic,” he replied, amazed by her words. He turned to face her once more, meeting her eyes instantly.Her eyes gleamed, like sunlight.She shrugged, the blossom of a smile forming. “Well, that’s how my brain translated your words. They sounded lovely to me.”Loosely based on Reylo Prompt:‘Still thinking about when I began an email to my tutor with “I hope you had a good weekend” and he just replied ‘Hi Alice, I didn’t.’”
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey & Ben Solo, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 36
Kudos: 247
Collections: Reylo Prompt Fills (@reylo_prompts)





	The Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much no angst, wanted to do something soft for once! Highly amazed I was able to pull it together by the deadline I set and it stayed a one-shot!
> 
> Here is a playlist I recommend to go along with the reading: 
> 
> ‘Cinnamon Girl’ by Lana Del Rey  
> ‘Asleep’ by The Smiths  
> ‘My Kind Of Woman’ by Mac Demarco (Instrumental)  
> ‘Lover’ by Taylor Swift  
> ‘I Will’ by The Beatles  
> ‘Daylight’ by Taylor Swift  
> ‘Step’ by Vampire Weekend  
> ‘This Love’ by Taylor Swift

Rey let out a triumphant sigh once she hit ‘send.’

**Good morning Professor Ren,**

**I hope you had a good weekend!**

**I just wanted to let you know that I ended up submitting my final via email. I saw your message on the discussion board, telling us to let you know if we end up emailing it since there were problems with the LMS server.**

**I also wanted to say that I’ve really enjoyed your class. Your perspective and insight on art history has really enlightened me; this class has evoked a new appreciation for it. I’m glad I selected your class this semester.**

**Have a good winter break!**

**Best,**

**Reyanna Kenobi**

**History of Art 101**

His reply was almost immediate.

**Good morning Miss Kenobi,**

**I didn’t. But thanks.**

**Thank you for letting me know.**

**I’ve enjoyed having you in class as well. Your commentary has certainly given me a new take on some of the course material.**

**I won’t. But thanks.**

**You too.**

**Regards,**

**Kylo Ren**

**Associate Professor of Art History**

**Department of Fine Arts and the Institute of Fine Arts,**

**NYU**

She frowned as she read it once more.

Her heart went out to him. His blunt admissions were slightly amusing, but ultimately evoked a sense of compassion and pity.

He was blunt like that. She appreciated the confidence and ease he had in his own commentary, but it was troubling when it was directed at himself. He didn’t allow the pangs of self-deprecation and inadequacy to crack through the cool, confident, effortless mask he wore usually, but whenever he did, she felt for him.

A caricature of him existed in her mind; he carried himself as if he existed behind an iron mask, monochromatic and dark, shielding him with its obscurity from the repercussions of being so ruthlessly vulnerable and candid.

She was relieved, if not slightly flattered, to read that she had been an enjoyable presence in her online class; Professor Ren was absolutely brilliant. He saw things in colors that she didn’t know existed; felt the diligence and dedication each artist exuded in their brush stroke; heard the silent pleas, praises, and agonies that were wordlessly expressed through the faces of some of the most renowned portraits.

It was profound, really. The way someone could have such a fluent dialogue with the hidden person locked away on a canvas. The rulers that reigned over the worlds mended with the divinity of acrylic and oil.

The way Professor Ren had managed to open her eyes to a world she never would’ve taken the time to notice existed, parallel to their own, was a breathtaking realization.

She found herself enrolled in his class purely by chance. She needed one more class to meet her credit quota; she had put off taking an art class for so long, it was the one hitch in plan to graduate.

Had it not been for her miraculous entry into Professor Ren’s class, she wouldn’t be on track to graduate. She had been on the waitlist for weeks, just praying that someone would drop out somehow.

By the first week, someone did.

A few actually.

As it turns out,more than a few students found his teaching style a bit abrasive and demanding. His constant demand that his students be active participants on the discussion boards seemed a bit excessive and unnecessary to some, she gathered from Rate My Professor.

_‘He acts like his class is the only one that matters,’ one commenter said._

_‘He genuinely expects us all to just somehow know what he’s thinking and be on his level, as if it were actually possible to know what the hell he’s talking about.’_

_‘The arrogance and self-importance he exudes is exhausting.’_

_‘Count your blessings that this is online. I can’t imagine how horrid it’d be to be stuck in a classroom with this Van Gogh wannabe. This is why boomers shouldn’t be allowed to teach.’_

_‘Ren’s smart, but his course is way too demanding and rigorous. He must be either a masochist or incredibly lonely.’_

The last comment stung most once she remembered it. The commentary did have some merit; he did require a lot of time and dedication to the work; he did seem quite proud of his expansive knowledge on the world of art; he was— at times— difficult to understand and resonate with.

But if they were to just take the time to try— to try to understand him, it would be much better. The desire just wasn’t there for most of her classmates. They took no particular interest in discerning what Ren meant when he rambled, let alone empathize with the evident emotion and passion he felt whenever he went on these rants.

She did. She did try to understand him. She wanted to. His mind was a work of art in and of itself, she soon realized. The way he viewed the world was so refined and intriguing, she found it impossible to not take an interest in his passions and musings.

It saddened her to think that he was lonely. She had no idea what sort of person was behind the icon that featured ‘[At Eternity’s Gate](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/At_Eternity%27s_Gate)’ by Vincent Van Gogh, used in place of a photo ID.

Maybe he was old.

Maybe he was arrogant.

Maybe he was worn.

Maybe he was sad.

Maybe he was difficult.

Maybe he was lonely.

Sometimes it did feel like his prompts and conversation starters on the forum were silent pleas for human contact. He replied almost immediately each time she posted her response, which only encouraged her to reply often and as readily as he did. There were more than a few archived discussions that expanded mostly between the two of them. It was pretty pitiful.

Not only for his sake, but her own.

If he really was lonely, she was just as lonely.

She didn’t really have any friends or family; her parents were gone when she was so young she could barely recollect their faces, and any friends she did have were left behind in New Mexico once she moved to New York.

The few she had all said they’d keep in contact, but it was a promise that went unfulfilled.

To say she was a tad dejected by the commenting of this semester and her fleeting friendliness with Professor Ren was an understatement.

She truly meant it when she said it. She sincerely hoped he that he would have a good winter break.

She hoped the same for herself; though, like him, she doubted she would.

* * *

All Ben could do was groan.

He lay slack in his leather armchair, staring up at the ceiling. He had nothing better to do, he supposed.

He could actually go onto grade the final reports his students had submitted... but he wasn’t up to it. Not really. He wasn’t in the headspace to read over the half-assed musings of his class; he knew none of them cared about the topic, not even a little bit.

Maybe it wasn’t so much that they were apathetic toward art history; instead, they were likely repelled by his way of teaching.

It was just as well. He didn’t really have any interest in paying tribute to those who refused to make even a simple effort. They weren’t worth the time.

That’s what he’d tell himself anyway. It was easier to think that than dwell on the repercussions of his own character flaws.

He couldn’t help it. It was like a dark cloud of gloom and moodiness hung over him all his life. He couldn’t seem to get it right, no matter how hard he tried. He was well aware that often times, he was too much for people. Especially when it came to his online class; it was easy for him to express how passionate he was about the subject; easy to go off on tangents about romanticism without a second thought; easy to go on monologues on surrealism without filter; easy to lecture about post-Impressionism without rest.

Whenever he felt anything, he felt it entirely. Mind, body, and soul; Ben Solo did not love in pieces.

This ultimately proved to be a liability, he realized early on in his career. The vulnerability of adoration was often mistook for weakness by his colleagues. He was just one of the thousands of his kind.

His own name wasn’t good enough; his advisor through grad school had suggested he use an alias that sounded more ‘dramatic’ and ‘daring;’ he convinced him it would be more eye-catching to those whose eyes were worthy of being caught.

And so he went by ‘Kylo Ren’ these days. He needed something to stand out, he was told. There were countless ambitious twenty-somethings running rampant in New York, eyes hungry for esteem and hearts hungry for acceptance. All trying to make their _mark_ on the world.

Ben would be happy enough to simply _find his place_ in the world. Acceptance was what he yearned for most of all. Validation. Understanding. Empathy, in the most basic sense.

And it dazzled him that he found that in a student, of all things. It was as delightful as it was ridiculous.

Reyanna Kenobi was just being polite, he reminded himself. She had manners; she wanted a good grade in the class. Of course she made an effort to succeed in his class, especially since she was so close to graduating.

He couldn’t deny that he was curious about the person that was behind the thoughtful, refreshingly astute comments and engamants she’d indulge him with.

He requested that each student select a work that they felt a connection to and use it in place of an ID photo. He wasn’t proud of his own appearance and thus refrained from using his own photo, so it was only fair that he allow his students to do the same.

Reyanna Kenobi chose ‘[Christina’s World](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christina's_World)’ by Andrew Wyeth. The nostalgia and sense of longing met with spurn did nothing for his curiosity about her.

Those who did select a work for their profile picture stuck to the classic cliche paintings, such as the [Mona Lisa](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mona_Lisa) and [The Scream](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Scream). He didn’t mind the use of popular art, but he did appreciate that Reyanna Kenobi made an effort to find something fairly less typical.

His interest was selfish. He was just lonely, when it came down to it. He liked having someone to talk to, even if they were only doing it for the sake of their education. Even if it was all in vain, her words were always soothing to his senses.

She saw light in dark corners; a question mark where he might put a period; beauty in ugly. It was as if she were a scavenger collecting the remnants of hope and humanity where he was too dull to search out for himself.

She fed into the emotional digging he engaged in when analyzing.

‘ _Claude Monet, the father of Impressionism as we know it. How did Monet look at the world around him that allowed for his stanch ability to blend the theory of light with perception of color? The natural harmony between shadow and shade? The effect of nature on the scene in the present moment, capturing the morning dew or fog of twilight? What would he possibly think this perception would accomplish? What would be his end goal? The appeal?’_

Reyanna Kenobi responded to his prompt almost immediately.

‘ _Hi Professor Ren!_

_I’m sure this is not the direction you had in mind when proposing this thought, but each time I look at one of Monet’s works, the warmth and vitality that filters his style is ever present. But when I think of the world around me, in contrast to his perception, I can’t help but wonder how it’s possible to look at the same thing he might be looking at and see it how he does. Perception, of course, is subjective; but when I try my best to see the living world through his eyes, it’s reminiscent of casting a stare with glossy eyes. Eyes that sting, burning with the salty warmth of tears brimming. Misty-eyed, obscuring the collection of color and tone; where one hue starts and another ends. The world looks so much softer when you’re crying; the irony of that truth is not lost on me.’_

It took him a while to wrap his mind around that observation.

_Monet paints the world as he sees it; he weeps as he observes. What does that say about him?_

Though it would be impossible to sustain that theory, the perspective was refreshing and welcomed. It was troubling that her mind went there to begin with, but in that way he felt a kindred bond with her. It was unspoken, but he understood her. And she understood him.

Knowing that he’d likely never have those luminous moments that highlighted his long, drab days ever again was a tremendous loss.

It didn’t matter though. He could never do anything about it anyway. For all he knew, Reyanna Kenobi could be someone twice his age or married or otherwise accounted for; the fact that his mind even veered in that direction, prospecting the notion that his feelings might be romantic was enough to repel him from these musings.

He was just lonesome, he decided. He was emotionally vacant, desperate to form a connection of any kind.

It was for the best that he and this mysterious student parted ways, never venturing off the path of friendliness between student and teacher.

He hoped Reyanna Kenobi did have a good winter break. She deserved it.

And as far as it depended on him, he would try to do the same.

He _had_ to try.

* * *

Rainy Tuesday nights often made up the backgrounds of her life as of late.

The thick, damp frigid air, companion to the late autumn made being inside all the more appealing. The red and gold reflection of streetlights gilded against the wet cement, coloring the dark streets with hues akin to nebulas; the heaps of people and prickling of commerce activity dotted about like the stars.

The scene was captivating, but it was just too chilly to be outside.

She didn’t even know how she found herself in the museum. Maybe it was the promise of free admission on Tuesday nights from the banner overhead; maybe it was a convenient refuge from the rainfall; maybe it was just something to do for a change, rather than lying around in her lonely flat, living her life through the captivity of a phone screen.

Ah, but even that wasn’t it. Not completely.

It was impossible to deny her curiosity. Her musings of what might be held within those brick walls.

She was handed a brochure upon entering.

‘ _A Study Of Love_ ,’ was written across the top in aged, rugged type print.

The teaser went onto describe it further.

‘ _Take a glimpse through the eyes of lovers as a hand-selected showcase is on display— one week only! Curated by the Department of Art History of NYU Chairwoman Leia Organa, our gallery features timeless pieces from esteemed masters, comping a super cut of romance, intimacy, passion, lust, companionship— and perhaps the oldest theme known to mankind— love_.’

Her lips quirked as she tucked the program into her purse and entered the lobby.

_I wonder if Professor Ren helped out with this._ _  
_

* * *

**_Earlier that day..._ ** _  
_

_“_ Of all the pieces to select, hun,” Leia tsked with folded arms.

He just shrugged. “I like it.”

He didn’t need to look at her face to know it had soured. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a classic, but it’s just... lackluster. Dull, even.”

A low groan hummed out. He supposed she was right, his selection being a noticeably subdue, muted, barren candidate amongst the others; it could even be deemed as imperceptible to the passive spectator. The others were vivid and lively, bold and dramatic; they exuded romance and passion, perfectly mirroring the theme.

But he felt strongly about his selection. Love wasn’t always vivid and lively, bold and dramatic. Romantic or passionate. Sometimes it was subdue and muted; sometimes love was quiet and minute, easy to miss if one isn’t looking for its presence. Imperceptible to the passive spectator.

In context, he also appreciated the illusion of trial. He liked the idea that they were hooded away from each other, yet they still made the effort to find the other.

It was a maddening concept, to be so heavily drawn to someone and yet there’s something that keeps you from them.

Those sentiments resonated with him, rooted from an experience he wasn’t sure he had. But it was very real, nonetheless.

He felt somewhat ordained by his own convictions to insist that this particular piece be featured.

It didn’t really matter that it was down the end of the exhibit, an easy target for missed appreciation.

He knew it was there, and those who allowed it to draw their attention in would know it was there as well.

The strokes of oil against calloused canvas really was an anthropological experience, if one allowed themselves to pay tribute.

* * *

“How does one acquire a love like that?”

The silvery, smoky voice laced with a crisp English accent rung like a bell in his ears, interrupting the trance he lost himself in.

He felt the skin of his face grow warm, followed by the tips of his ears. He turned his head slowly, hesitating to turn and be met with the realization that the haunting, breathy toned question was in fact just a melody he conjured in his head. But it wasn’t.

There she was, the host of the sultry voice. Her hair was dark like coffee, messy and pulled up together in an intricate yet effortless updo, three rolls of hair steeping down the back of her neck. Wisps and strands of the glimmering swarm of hair floated around her face, contrasting dark with light; though her skin was pale like cream, an underlying warmth was obvious, only to be dusted by carnation-pink. Her lips were full and rose-tinted, the corners of which were raised slightly up to give a quiet smile.

But most of all, her eyes— the eyes always have it.

In the brief second he looked into them, he was lost. A wanderer in the forest, surrounded by lush bursts of emerald and juniper; in the dark corners, daylight crept in, flashing amber and gold. Each color faded seamlessly into the other, forming a new hue that was ultimately of her own making, custom-blended for her.

She was a cool, green labyrinthine, brimming with life; her essence was the heat that poured out from the sun overhead, illuminating everything in its path with its glory.

Alight was how she made him feel.

_How could I feel so much? So soon?_

Her small, pointed nose crinkled along with her eyebrows, tightening her face into a mischievous grin.

“What do you think?”

It took her follow-up question to make him realize he was staring, absolutely dumbstruck.

She was miraculous.

He shook his head briskly, as if coming to after fainting or shaking off the after mass of a bucket of ice water being poured over his head. His own lips had been parted and deepest eyes wide, much to his embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, forcing himself to turn away and face forward. “What was the question?”

She giggled, the sound coming out like a silky hum. “I asked what you think,” she extended her arm toward the painting in front of them. “It’s inspiring. How does one go about finding a love like that? To set in on a moment so ethereal and intimate, and capture it so flawlessly?”

Doing his best to keep her question in mind, he re-evaluated the portrait.

“‘[ _A Stroll on the Canal at Quimperle_](https://www.artistsnetwork.com/art-history/top-10-romantic-paintings/?utm_content=bufferf9d52&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pinterest.com&utm_campaign=arn-buffer-pt),’” he read the title aloud. At the end of a river, navy and deep, running through the yellow and white that surrounded and conveyed the image of a town, were the two.

The Man, clothed in an azure coat and face obscured by a khaki cap stood next to her; his hands were carded together and his head was tilted to the right, lower portion of the scene.

The Woman at his right was wrapped in a dusty pink dress and her hands were braced against the railing, keeping her firm and steady. She kept her torso conservatively tucked away while the man’s was leaning slightly inward, positioned in compliment to her. Her gaze was casted toward him, as if he had something in his hands and she was trying to peek at it.

It was just them. Just The Man and The Woman, sharing a quiet moment at the end of the canal, fenced in the middle of their town.

He smiled, wistfully looking on. “The two seem to be enjoying the other’s company. I think it’s quiet moments like that that compose some of the greatest loves.”

She hummed. “That does seem fitting,” she agreed. “What time of day do you suppose it was?”

He ran his fingers through his reckless waves of black hair. “It’s obscured, a bit murky. Subdue, but light glimmers over the water and gold seeps into the foreground from the left-portion of the scene. So I think it’s sunset.”

He knew for a fact that it was meant to be depicted at sundown, but he didn’t want to discourage the conversation from continuing.

“Good observation. I would’ve thought it might be morning, because they’re able to share a quiet, undisturbed moment between them— just the two of them, no one coming or going around them.”

“Maybe they went somewhere they knew they could be alone.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod. ”Not so secluded that Sidaner was unable to capture the moment.”

He smirked. ”Guess not.”

“I like what you said. That the greatest love is sewn together, held by the intricacy of companionship.”

“You took the vague comment I made and turned it poetic,” he replied, amazed by her words. He turned to face her once more, meeting her eyes instantly.

Her eyes gleamed, like sunlight.

She shrugged, the blossom of a smile forming. “Well, that’s how my brain translated your words. They sounded lovely to me.”

She hunched over, resting her jawline against her fists, arms propped at the knee.

“Do you think Sidaner used models for this?” He found himself continuing the conversation.

A dreamy sigh came out. “No. I think this was a moment he stumbled upon. And I imagine it would be bittersweet; his use of a dramatic dark palette contrasts well with the light, lazy palette.”

He cocked a brow, intrigued. “Why do you think there was a conflict?”

“He found a candid, warm moment between lovers. But he was on the outside, looking in. Watching, but never being. I don’t know much about his personal life, so maybe he wasn’t lonely. But I imagine in a moment like that, the draft of being on the outside must not have been lost on him.”

He needed a moment to absorb her observation. It was a stark conclusion to make from the simple portrait, but her words began to resonate with him. The inner conflict of sweetness—sharing the happiness of others, versus the bitterness— yearning for something so far off, nearly alien to your own experience.

If that was how Henri Le Sidaner did in fact feel, he understood that well. He was feeling those same pangs of appreciation and envy as he stood as a spectator to the display of love and closeness between lovers.

“Is that how you feel?”

Her smile dwindled for a moment, causing him to regret the question. It returned almost immediately though, slightly weaker than before. “Sometimes.”

The answer pained him. She seemed lovely and bright; how could there be a lack of those flocking to be warmed under her light?

He watched her carefully through his lashes, head tilted downward. His lips quirked from side-to-side, tasting his words before saying them to her.

“You’re not alone,” he murmured with a heavy, worn tone.

She didn’t move from her current position, but as her eyes casted to him, he saw the light inside them radiate brighter, like the sun finding its way back to the sky in the dawn of day.

“Neither are you,” she cooed back.

Without even realizing it, she extended her hand out to him. “I’m Rey.”

He extended his own, slowly as if he were giving her a chance to pull hers back.

“I’m Ben.”

When their hands touched, it felt like electric currents buzzed in the air, jolting through her veins.

It was as if a dark, doleful haze obscuring the night sky had shifted, uncovering the brilliance of a full, silver moon.

Her eyes rested on their hands, intertwined. His pale, soft skin engulfed her own. The lightness of his hands complimented the rough, calloused texture of her own; despite the opposite condition of their skin, she didn’t feel the embarrassment or shame she normally did for having such aged, rough, worn hands. It was soothing, really.

“Nice to meet you,” she finally managed out. She reluctantly pulled her hand away, immediately missing the warmth of his much larger one.

He jolted slightly, seemingly also disrupted by the lack of contact.

The captivating smile he gave compensated; his lips, even fuller than her own, were blotted with a berry hue and the corners of which shifted up, forming a crooked grin.

“Nice to meet you too, Rey.”

His voice, deep and stormy, made her name sound like an ancient, sacred hymn. The intensity of his eyes softened into a more comfortable gaze. It was a welcomed opportunity to peer deeper into them, allowing her to get the full composition of each detail.

His eyes were deepset and dark, beckoning her to him like gravity. The heterochromia that rung around his pupils melted into his own unique shade, a fusion of cinnamon and tawny met with olive and fern. Light in dark corners ran through them like a fire burning against the night, causing a certain cast to linger.

The darkness of his countenance was reminiscent of a desert storm, dusting the sky with its murky shadow. The clouds of it angry and strong, the winds gusting without rest. The brooding storm on the horizon, bringing its arid heat, would normally cause her to run; but in Ben, it was a wrap of warmth keeping her in place. A welcomed monsoon, flowing its chaos around the barren solitude.

“Would you like to walk around with me?” She asked.

His smile grew brighter. “I’d love to.”

They walked around the gallery, walking closely yet cautiously.

“What do you think of that one, Rey?”

He pointed to another.

The focal point was a couple, seated on a plank suspended by rope, serving as a swing. They were nestled in the other’s embrace; his arms were spread and hands hooked on the rope hanging on each side, head tilted down toward her.

She was clothed in a sheer, while cloth that left her somewhat exposed; the tapestry that she was clothed in floated around as she and he swayed, gliding against the movement like silken gossamer. Her hair was golden in the sunlight and she hooked her arms around his neck, either pulling him down to her or pulling herself up to him.

Around them was a vivid depiction of forest. Crisp, green stems pushed out from the earth, along with thick, soft sprouts of hunter, jade, and moss. The glow of daylight slithered into the forefront, illuminating the pair as they tucked away into the other.

“‘[ _Le Printemps_](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/438158),’” she read the title, her English accent adding an endearing twist on the French words. “Springtime.”

She tapped an index finger against her chin, puckering her lips as she formed her response. “To me, it reminds me of the way flora blossoms back to life after a harsh winter. There are still tinges of coldness, but the sun shines heavier and melts away the frost. I imagine it’d be fresh, the place they are. That same relaxed feeling one feels after spending the day swimming in the ocean, the coolness of skin serving as a quencher to the heat brimming from the muscle underneath. It’s a weightless, comfortable feeling.”

She looked up to him. “That’s what the love between them feels like to me.”

He spent a long moment taking in her expression, his own melting down to something soft. He looked back to the painting.

“It reminds me a little bit of my childhood. I’d often go spend summers with my grandparents. My grandma used to be a prime minister when she was younger, so their home felt like a castle. They had a lush, rich garden like that. Everything flowered and the dew that was left over each morning was a welcomed relief from the heat. They had a swing too, tied to an old willow tree.”

The sweetness of his memory warmed her heart. “Did you like to swing on it?”

His face dropped slightly. “I did, but it wasn’t very fun so I didn’t do it often. They were always busy, so I never had anyone else to play with. It’s hard to enjoy a swing by yourself. There’s no one to push you.”

She frowned and shifted her glance toward the ground, then back to the portrait. “I didn’t have a swing set or anything, but I am familiar with the predicament of playing without a partner. I lived near some sand dunes and I’d go to the top, use a spare plank or what have you, and glide down like I was sledding. But, like you said. It was hard when there was no one to push you.”

She didn’t need to look at him to know he was also frowning now. He brought two fingers to his mouth and tapped them against his lips, seeming like he was deep in thought.

“It’s funny that the couple in the picture are sitting together, then. Instead of one pushing the other,” she added.

He looked down to her. “Maybe it doesn’t matter to them. Maybe just being around each other is enough. They don’t seem to need much else.”

As they continued on, Ben took notice of [another piece](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flaming_June).

The woman it featured was curled into herself, resting her head into her arms as she drifted off into sleep. She was sprawled around a chair decorated in mustard and burgundy tapestry, allowing the sheer marigold dress she was in to pop; it flowed around her in waves like fire. Her cheeks were flushed, jaw relaxed. The slumber she was raft in was heavy and comfortable, though she was rendered as vulnerable in the sight of the spectator/artist.

Rey noticed it as well and stopped walking.

“Maybe that’s what the artist came home to. His lover, slipping into the rapture of sleep. She stayed up, waiting for him all day, but he came back later than anticipated, so she found herself dozing off.”

“And she looked so lovely, peacefully laying there. He had to capture it.”

“She looks like she’s at peace. So she must have known he would be coming home to her, no matter what. She fell asleep, knowing she would be with him. That he wasn’t gone forever. Leaving her behind.”

He watched her as she studied the portrait; he found that she was a very comfortable sight to rest his eyes on. “How could he leave when he knows he has someone like her at home, waiting for him?”

Her cheeks pinked and she gave small, tight smile. “I think loneliness and I are old friends.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“I grew up without family. I know how it feels to live without sleep. Unable to submit to your own chronic fatigue, because you’re too afraid of what will happen in the short time you close yourself off from the world. Sometimes the darkness of waking is more daunting than the darkness of nightmares.”

Silence followed. She was about to speak up so as to recover the situation from the awkwardness, but he beat her to it.

“Sometimes those nightmares aren’t nightmares; they’re memories. So lonely, so afraid to leave. At night, desperate to sleep.”

“Sounds like we both have lost hours we won’t get back.”

He nodded slowly. “I know how you feel. Loneliness is funny like that. You can be in a room full of people and if it finds you, it becomes all consuming.”

Her eyes stung. She rolled her lips to tighten her face and tilted her head toward him. “Maybe you were in the wrong room.”

Somehow, his face lifted. “I think you’re right.”

* * *

“What do you think he’s saying her?” Rey asked as they stopped at another.

_‘[Chex le père Lathuille](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chez_le_p%C3%A8re_Lathuille)_,’ by Édouard Manet.

“I think he’s asking her to run away with him. His eyes are pleading, a visual beg for her company.”

She bit her lip, causing his heart to race. “Do you think he’s got her convinced?”

He chuckled as he gave a loose shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe he has nothing to offer. But from the looks of it, whatever he has— he’s offering her. If he had reign over the galaxy, he’d be asking her to join him.”

The back of her hand brushed across his. “In that exact moment— what do you think he’s saying?”

“‘Join me,’” he gave her a pointed look, waiting until she looked back at him to continue. “‘Please.’”

Her eyes grew wider for a passing second, as if she were shaken by his words. But she reset back into a soft gaze. “If he’s offering her his hand, based on the look on her face, as she stares into his eyes— I think she would take it.”

* * *

She tugged his arm, pulling him along with childlike glee. “Ben! Look at this one!”

Her excitement rubbed off on him, though he was hesitant to look away from her and look to the piece she was pointing at.

“My favorite contemporary artist. [Ron Hicks](http://www.ronhicks.com/).”

He preened, pleased to share a mutual admiration for Hicks. He didn’t get a chance to cover any of his work over the semester, but he did cite him as a discussion prompt for extra credit at times. He was glad to see him being featured in the exhibit.

Hazy, muted strokes of color formed the image of a woman. Her shoulders stuck out around a light, ivory sheet and her neck was craned down, casting her stare to her lap. Her lover rested his head over her thighs, covered in a fiery red skirt. Her hand braced the back of his head and the other caressed his jawline. The look between them was quiet and blissful, saying nothing yet baring even the most hidden pieces of themselves to the other. He looked up to her like she was the sun, the way she shone over him.

And she looked at him like he was the light of her life. His smile, lazily tugging at the corners of his lips, drew her in like the moonlight does with the sea.

The gravity between them was a driving force that bound them together; an invisible attribute, yet it was the centerpiece of the [painting.](https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=http%3A%2F%2Fronhicks.fineartworld.com%2FartistViewingRoomCtl.php%3Fimageid%3D5691%26artistid%3D320%26imagesPerPage%3Dall%26&psig=AOvVaw08G5x3_vin_E5cQ-J6RsRt&ust=1590359189725000&source=images&cd=vfe&ved=0CA0QjhxqFwoTCIiN9uaDy-kCFQAAAAAdAAAAABAD)

[One](https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.flickr.com%2Fphotos%2Fgandalfsgallery%2F24507867486&psig=AOvVaw3xkz0TgCpjsCCpmp1Hfnad&ust=1590359229746000&source=images&cd=vfe&ved=0CA0QjhxqFwoTCMDB1_uDy-kCFQAAAAAdAAAAABAD) of the others among Hick’s collection gave him an idea.

“Would you wanna grab a cup of coffee?”

* * *

The cafe was dim, but the filtered lighting was a stark contrast between the inside and the world that waited on the out.

Rey ordered a chai tea latte; he ordered a black coffee with a dash of cream and sprinkle of cinnamon.

“Did you like the exhibit, Rey?” He asked once they were seated.

She smiled as she sipped her drink, clutching the cup with two hands. She wasn’t wearing mittens.

“I loved it. Absolutely breathtaking. How about you?”

Amused, he chuck;ed. He had enjoyed it far more than he ever thought he would. “I really enjoyed it as well. Way better than I thought, if I’m being honest.”

Her features pinched causing the sputter of freckles around her face to collect. He wondered how many there were, if it’d be possible to render their intricacy accurately if he were to capture it in a portrait. “Low expectations?”

He stirred his drink, thinking of a response. “No... I guess I can be a bit of a skeptic sometimes. I can be bitter. I thought that I would foil myself and not be able to appreciate it,” he raised his eyes from his cup to her face. She was watching him as if his mere act of speaking held the same importance of a theatre performance. No one had ever looked at him like that before.

“You made me step out of the way of my own happiness. You gave me some much-needed perspective.”

She blossomed with his praise. A passing shyness took over her but she overcame it, speaking anyway. “Would you believe me if I told you that was the first time I’d ever been in a museum? An art gallery like that?”

He gawked; she was right to hesitate because he couldn’t believe that. Not with the level of profound understanding and appreciation she expressed for it all.

“That can’t be.”

She nodded, lips tight. “It is. You know, I never was really interested in the arts. Never noticed or gave much thought I suppose.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and bit her lip. “I, um... I’m actually finished with my studies and ended up taking an art history class this past semester. The professor was brilliant.”

His shoulders tensed and his breath hitched, though he didn’t know why. “Oh?”

“Yeah, he always had such insightful, beautiful bits of wisdom on things I had never given thought to. The way colors contrast, the relevance of spacing between objects. Details I’d never noticed before.”

“Where did you study, Rey?”

“NYU actually,” she took a drink of her latte. “It was an online course.”

His heart moved about in his chest in a funny manner, though he wasn’t sure if it was from unease or excitement. “Who was your professor?”

He could see she wanted to break into a deeper smile, but she kept herself composed. “Kylo Ren. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s really, really great.”

His alabaster skin was burning with a peach sheen; his deepset eyes were blown wide.

_No..._

_It can’t be._

Unable to help himself, he went in for it.

“Rey... Reyanna Kenobi?”

Now it was her face that flushed and her eyes that grew twice in size. Her lips pouted tightly, unraveling the smile that was there before.

“Yes? Were... were you in the class?”

There wasn’t time to decide if this was a tremendously unfortunate turn of events, or a tremendously miraculous one.

He rumbled with joy, a breath chuckle escaping. “Yeah, yeah you could say that.”

She cocked her head, trying to read his reaction. “I’m not quite following you, mate...”

He cupped his face in his palms and sighed. “I’m Kylo Ren.”

She frowned and her brows knitted together. “I’m sorry?”

He knew it sounded ridiculous. “I know, I know. Kylo Ren is a pseudonym. My actual name is Ben Solo. I’m an assistant professor, and I teach Art History 101 online.”

She gasped and shook her head. “You’re joking.”

His face fell. She was disappointed.

“I— I’m sorry, I had no idea,” he came to, suddenly feeling like a cad. “I had absolutely no idea you were in my class, since, you know, I know you as ‘Miss Kenobi’ and you use ‘Christina’s World’ as your icon.”

She huffed a laugh, half amused and half in disbelief. “This is really crazy. Oh, god. I must have sounded like a total ninny in there.”

Was she embarrassed? How could she be embarrassed? She was perfect.

Without even realizing it, his hand rested atop hers. “No, no Rey, sweetheart,” he comforted.

She livened up upon hearing his words and her eyes zoomed to where his hand was.

Realizing the unintentional intensity of the gesture, he retracted his hand speedily and straightened up. He hunched over and buried his head in his arms, folded on the table.

“I’m sorry, I’m... I’m not good at this... thing. Talking to people.”

Rey had no idea what came over her, but the sight of him hunched over like that was both endearing and painful. She wanted to comfort him and thus found her hand carding through his soft, silky hair as it mopped over his arms.

“Me either,” she admitted with a chuckle. “But I liked it. I liked talking to you.”

He raised up slowly, seemingly blown away by her words. “What?”

Her smile returned to her and she nodded. “I do. I’ve always enjoyed our conversations. If I’m being candid, I felt a certain fondness toward you. A type of affinity, like a cherished companionship. I don’t really have many friends or family, but it seemed to be minuscule whenever I was active in your class. I liked hearing from you. And I think I would miss it greatly if I was unable to hear from you again.”

Something in him woke up, illuminating his body like a lantern. “Really?”

“Of course. I’m sorry, I’m sure this is wildly inappropriate, I—,” she laughed. “I never meant my intentions to stray out of line, of course. For all I knew, you could’ve been a decrepit old man or something.”

She pinched her nose, irritated by her word choice. He followed her in laughing though. His teeth were slightly crooked and they made him all the more beautiful.

“I mean... I _did_ turn 30 last month, so not sure what you consider decrepit... but yeah, I had my own suspicions about you too. For all I knew, you could’ve been an old decrepit woman or something. Married, engaged, indifferent,” he shrugged, “so yeah, I was just happy to have someone to talk to. Even more so now.”

“Is 24 considered decrepit to you?” She teased.

He shook his head a bit too eagerly. “I don’t think so.”

She took a moment to reflect on the sudden revelation. “Did you only talk to me because you had to, as my instructor, or because you were lonely, or because you actually enjoyed our conversations?”

His features crinkled as if her words were offensive to him. “I sincerely liked hearing from you. You were the highlight of my day. Sometimes I’d add extra prompts and discussion board messages just to see if I’d hear from you”

The way admissions were pouring out without hesitation should have embarrassed him, but he found it easy to be himself around her. It was a seamless fit, like sliding into the warm embrace of belonging.

“I looked forward to them, honestly. I really loved being in your class, but most of all talking to you.”

“Someone once told me that the greatest love is sewn together through the intricacy of companionship.”

* * *

**_2 Years Later_ **

“Ben, why can’t you just tell me what it is?” She whines as he pulled her to the end of the now empty building.

He sighs dreamily. “That wouldn’t be a fun surprise. It’s something you have to see in person to experience.”

“I wish you would’ve taken me back to the museum to see it then.”

“I found myself distracted after that day. Wonder why.”

She smirks in effort to conceal the coloring of her cheeks.

Finally as they reached the point he was directing them to, he covered her eyes with his palm before she could see.

“Before you look,” he starts, leaning in so his words brushed against the shell of her ear. “I picked this before any of this happened. When I selected it, I thought of it as a nod to the mundane. To the boring, nondescript type of love that gets overlooked and maybe isn’t so easily understood.”

Ben moves his hand from her sight.

In front of her was a portrait of two people, a man and a woman. The background was stone blue, they were dressed simply in formal wear. They were both draped under a white cloth, angled toward each other, intertwined through a kiss.

It was simple, not necessarily alluring to the eye; one could pass it by and not give it a second thought.

Ben, of course, knows the factual context of it. Many speculate that the love between the two is obstructed, perhaps symbolic of sexual frustration. Maybe. Maybe it’s a denial of the intensity. Something inhibits them, keeping them apart.

The common thought is that they each are wearing separate hoods. That their lips never actually touch.

And that’s what he had thought, too. But since he met Rey— felt her inside of his heart, blending herself with him— something shifted.

“What do you think, Rey?” He murmurs, his breath ghosting over her neck. “Tell me what you see.”

He feels her tremble, her skin warm with life. Her back was against his chest, he feels the blades of her shoulders move as she swayed.

Rey moves when she thinks, he came to realize. Whether it’s the gnawing of her lip when he asked her to marry him, the twirling a strand of hair with her finger as he waited for her answer of which shelter cat they should bring home, carding her hands as she came up with advice for him when he wanted to reach out to his father, or even just pacing around the room the few times they’ve argued— she gives it her all.

Whenever she feels anything, she feels it entirely. Mind, body, and soul; Rey Solo does not love in pieces.

Love was very much alive within Ben and Rey Solo. 

“I don’t think they’re being kept apart. No, I think— I think they’re together. They share a common mind, common heart. They’re enwrapped in their own closeness, intimacy. In a world of their own making, together.”

“So you think they put the sheet over themselves?

She nodded, hair ruffling against his chest and neck. “They like it that way. They like being together. They find understanding within each other. Maybe others don’t see it. Maybe they need to be alone together.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss at her temple. “Alone together.” The words left a wonderful aftertaste in his mouth, as pleasing as honey.

They walk out, satisfied with their tour of The Australian National Gallery.

Funny enough, it’s raining that night; a Tuesday, too.

Ben feels his arm being weighed down.

“Hey, Ben?” She stops walking.

He turns to her, cocked brow. “Yes, sweetheart?”

She’s getting drenched under the heavy summer shower, as is he; neither care, though. She hooks her fingers into his collar and pulls him over.

His lips are on hers, soft and sweet. It could’ve been moments, but maybe it was hours that he had her that way.

The rapture came when he felt her smile against his lips, vibrating with bliss as he lifted his coat and draped it over them.

In that moment, it was just them. Wrapped up into each other, a quiet moment in a large world.

Maybe this is what Rene Magritte had stumbled upon when rendering [The Lovers.](https://www.moma.org/learn/moma_learning/rene-magritte-the-lovers-le-perreux-sur-marne-1928/)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys like this :))
> 
> Please leave me comments, kudos, etc! 
> 
> Say hi to me on twitter!
> 
> Twitter.com/ang3lview 
> 
> All the paintings mentioned are cited within the story w/links.


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